


Alone After Life

by sapphicwave



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Canon typical drug use, M/M, POV First Person, but mostly theo being his usual destructive self, ill be honest guys this is 90 percent inner monologue and self reflection but work with me, it has antwerp pining, you know the drill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21766468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicwave/pseuds/sapphicwave
Summary: Boris took to writing letters easily, each one arriving on the back of different colorful postcards. Greetings from Greece! Greetings from Chicago! Greetings from Ukraine! His handwriting remained eerily unchanged from his youth, just as scribbled and angular as the translation notes I would find on the backs of receipts in Vegas.
Relationships: Theodore Decker/Boris Pavlikovsky
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	Alone After Life

Despite what we might have thought, Boris and I were not invincible. 

There was a time in Las Vegas when I got sick and Boris took care of me. It had just been a fever and a cough, but Boris had skipped school a few days to lay in bed with me, restless and sweaty and coughing up a storm. He occasionally left my side to steal cough syrup and canned soup from the store for me and he let me put on whatever movies I wanted to watch, even if he thought they really sucked. It wasn’t until after two days had passed and I couldn’t even keep down water that he became uncharacteristically worried. 

“Xandra should be home soon, I can ask her to take you to a doctor,“

“Boris! I’m fine, I swear, I just need to—“ I interrupted myself as I hunched over the toilet and retched miserably, emptying my stomach of what little it had left. It felt weird for Boris to stand there and worry over me instead of laughing like usual. 

“See! Can’t even have water! Potter, just let me—“ He tried putting his arms under mine to hoist me up but I flung an arm out defensively. 

“Get the fuck off me” I snapped, and felt my elbow hit Boris with a sickening crunch. He yelped and I heard him stumble backwards into the shower with a crash.

“What the fuck!?” Boris screamed, too loud for my pulsing headache. Maybe he was right, I thought, was my head supposed to hurt this bad? I looked over my shoulder to see Boris splayed out in the tub, tenderly touching his nose, which was beginning to bleed profusely. “I think you broke it, you fuck,” he said, sounding uneasy. 

“Shit, did you hit your head?” I asked, attempting to stand up from my place in front of the toilet and instantly being hit by a wave of vertigo. I sat back down quickly, and crawled a few feet over to the shower. “Boris?”

“Don’t touch me, asshole,” he said, jerking his knee away from my hand. He made an attempt to get out of the tub, slipping a few times on the fallen shower curtain. Once he steadied himself he made his way back into the bedroom. “You don’t want my help? I’m leaving. Clean up your own puke, Potter.” As if on cue, I was hit with another wave of nausea and began heaving again. “Such a drama queen,” Boris sighed, walking back into the bathroom, slinging his backpack on. He stopped abruptly, staring at me with sudden panic.

“I thought you were leaving,” I said weakly, not having enough energy left to be an asshole. 

“Is… Is that my blood or yours?” He said, pointing at the pool of fresh vomit on the floor. I looked down, suddenly noticing the bright crimson color on the floor. I scrubbed the back of my hand across my mouth and found it covered with blood. I looked back at Boris, both of us frozen in panic, until the sound of the front door opening snapped Boris back to reality and he took off down the stairs screaming Xandra’s name. 

… 

I woke with a gasp-- struggling for a moment in a tangle of blankets-- before sitting up and breathing heavily as I attempted to remember where I was from the dark surroundings. I looked around the room, which was sparsely decorated and furnished with only the essentials. I looked to my right and saw a bedside table with a few slices of bread on a plate and a glass of water, which I grabbed and chugged eagerly. 

“Ah, he lives,” a voice mumbled from behind me, making me jump. I turned around to see Boris laying on the other side of the bed, still dressed and laying on top of the blankets. He turned his head lazily and chuckled. “Just me, Potter.” He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes before getting off the bed and walking into the bathroom. “Sorry,” he called from the other room, “fell asleep by accident. I’ll take the couch.” He reentered the room in his pajamas, tossing his clothes in a heap on the floor. “You were out like a light. Asleep as soon as you hit the bed.” He eyed me up and down, and I realized I was still wearing my clothes, which reeked of sweat and throw up. “I have extra pajamas if you want,” then dug around the dresser for a moment before throwing various articles of clothing in my direction. He waved a sleepy hand in my direction before sauntering out of the room and into the hall.

I shook my head and quickly changed out of my clothes, slipping on Boris’ old tee shirt and sweats, vaguely recalling the two of us driving to his flat in Antwerp after he stopped by to announce the safe return of the Goldfinch into the world. The digital clock said 3:41 AM in blocky red numbers. I shook my head, which was heavy with sleep, and went into the bathroom. I stared at my reflection in the mirror in a poor attempt to ground myself. I was met with a version of myself red eyed and hollow looking, so pale that I wondered briefly if I really did die in that hotel room. Through the thin walls I could hear Boris turn on the tv, and found myself walking towards the living room like a moth to a flame. I joined him on the couch wordlessly, and the two of us watched some shitty action thriller with the volume turned almost all the way to zero. 

“Boris.” I said, sometime after the credits had stopped rolling and the room was drenched in darkness. My voice bounced off the walls ominously in the dark room, and I would’ve sworn I was completely alone if it wasn’t for the steady breathing from Boris next to me.

“Mm?” Boris hummed quietly.

“Do you remember when I broke your nose?”

“When you were sick?” No hesitation, despite the obvious sleepiness in his voice, “yeah, still mad at you for that.” I turned my head to meet his eyes, watching him tap the bump on the bridge of his nose. “Left your mark on me, Potter.” I swallowed thickly.

“I can’t remember what happened afterwards.” Boris lifted his head curiously at that.

“Hm? Well, Xandra took us to the hospital. You had…” he paused as he searched for the words, “ah, bronchitis. You were coughing so much you tore up your throat. Pretty bad fever too. They kept you on an IV for a few days.” I nodded and thought for a moment, still staring at the bump on Boris’ nose. 

“And you?” 

“What about me?”

“What happened to you?” I asked. Boris hesitated for a moment. 

“Concussion. And broken nose of course. Lucky you started puking your guts out. Probably would’ve gone to bed and never woken up if we didn’t go to the hospital.” I let that information hang in the air for a while. 

“Sorry I broke your nose.” I said, too loud for the sleepy whispers we’d been talking in. 

“It’s okay, Potter.” Boris sat up and put a hand on my shoulder. 

“You took care of me and I--” I could feel myself getting worked up, my sleep addled mind becoming delusional. 

“Theo. You’re tired. Let’s sleep, yeah?” He gently pushed me so I was laying down and began to cover me in blankets. And despite the muddle my brain was in, I allowed myself to be tucked in as if I was a child, and quickly fell back to sleep.

The next morning I woke to a string of hushed curses in various languages and the distinct smell of burning bacon. I sat up with a groan, head aching and my stomach turning at the smell. From the couch I could see Boris frantically waving his hand over a smoking pan, still in his pajamas with some stupid apron tied around his waist. He caught sight of me and smiled.

“Sorry, did I wake you?” He put the pan back on the stove and turned it off, turning away to open a window. “Been a while since I cooked! Tried to surprise you.” 

I made my way into the kitchen and sat down at the table, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Boris leaned by the open window, digging a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it.

“Are you trying to set the smoke detector off?”

“Ah, fuck off. Cooking is stressful.” He took a drag before offering it to me, but I shook my head quickly. Boris made his way back to the stove and brought over a plate of slightly overcooked eggs and a cup of coffee. “Eat. We have things to do today.” I eyed the plate suspiciously, then looked back up at Boris with an eyebrow raised. 

“_ We? _”

“Yes, we. Get you to a doctor. You know you look like a zombie?” He stubbed his cigarette on the windowsill and grabbed his own plate before returning to the table, “maybe get some groceries too. Not much to eat now that I burned up the last of my bacon.”

“No, no. You don’t need to take me to a doctor--” but before I could argue any further, Boris reached across the table and rapped his knuckles against my head. _ Idiot. _ “Ow! I have a headache asshole.”

“You’re going to a doctor!” He said, muttering an insult in Russian I didn’t quite catch. “No argument.”

“I’m an adult, Boris, I can do whatever I want.”

“An adult who is clearly very ill! Remember how well not going to the doctor went when you broke my nose? Hm?” He leaned back in his chair and lifted his chin at me, knowing fully well he was right. We bickered back and forth for several minutes, Boris only winning because I was struck with a sickening realization of the domesticity of the entire scene, cooking breakfast in silly aprons, making plans for the day, getting groceries together, arguing like an old married couple. I could almost imagine one of those obnoxiously in love TV couples having the same exact argument. I felt a wave of nausea unrelated to the burnt bacon and quietly agreed to do whatever Boris wanted, as long as he would shut up.

The visit to the doctor was quick and definitely not worth all the arguing, just a quick shot and instructions to drink lots of fluids, plenty of rest, etc. etc. We stopped at some fancy organic grocery store on the way home, standing in each aisle for way too long, arguing over which brand to get. We spent a full ten minutes in the soup aisle, fighting over whether we should get chicken noodle or tomato. I wasn’t even sure why I bothered to argue, it wasn’t as if I was staying in Antwerp any longer than I had to. I had to continually remind myself in the midst of our bickering that I still had a life to get back to. 

I made chicken noodle soup for the two of us, knowing Boris would somehow fuck up canned soup. We put on one of the vinyls on Boris’ dusty record player and he sat on the counter while I cooked, passing a bottle of wine back and forth and kicking his feet against the cabinets like he was a kid again. Later that night as we watched It’s a Wonderful Life—when Boris slid a needle into his arm and let out a sigh— I could feel my heart drop at the sight. I asked him why he started, and got some bullshit answer about a girl. 

_ So, why not stop then? _

_ Why should I? _

_ Do I really have to say why? _

Whatever Boris said to that, it didn’t matter, I couldn’t bring myself to say it anyway. _ Because I love you _ , I thought, _ because I don’t know how I would go on knowing you died before me. _

It was late now, and we were watching whatever hallmark Christmas movie was worthy of being played at 3 in the morning. We were watching with the sound off— too tired to continue our game of mouthing along to the movie with fake conversations and too comfortable to find the remote to turn it back up— and sharing the last bit of wine. I held the bottle upside down as I emptied the last drop and tossed it somewhere into the pillows of the couch, when Boris’ head suddenly dropped onto my shoulder. His breathing evened out and I watched him fall into a drunken sleep. The wine dulling my judgement, I allowed myself to study his face, watching the way his eyes fluttered as he dreamed uneasily, the bump on the bridge of his nose, the faint scar over his eyebrow. I had already memorized the tiny details of Boris from our youth, but they sat on his face differently as an adult. I could almost feel my hand twitching as I fought the urge to reach out and cup his cheek, just to see if he was different to the touch as well. Instead, I stood up suddenly, causing Boris to fall face first into the couch cushions. 

“I’m going to bed.” I announced loudly as Boris groaned. I stumbled my way into Boris’ room, absentmindedly stripping down to my t-shirt and boxers on the way there, and collapsed onto the bed. A few moments passed before Boris came in, his footsteps quiet yet unmistakably drunk. I heard him place a glass of water on the bedside table, then head back towards the door. I sat up in a panic. “Where are you going?” 

“Couch.” His voice was rough and obviously tired.

“You can sleep in here. I don’t care.” I could feel panic rising and I couldn’t understand why. I just knew that my drunken mind was telling me that if Boris left, something awful would happen. “That couch sucks to sleep on. No offense.” I could see the silhouette of Boris against the light from the hallway, hand on the back of his neck as he weighed his options. 

“You sure?” I simply nodded, as casually as I could manage. I saw Boris shrug and chuckle softly. “Fine. But no funny business, Potter.” He peeled off his day clothes before climbing over me to the empty side of the bed and sliding under the comforter. 

Boris had shuffled around for a few minutes before his breathing evened out, leaving me to lay there in the dark, and stare at the ceiling for what felt like a long time. I shifted around, feeling like my skin was itching, something in my chest deeply uncomfortable. I turned to face Boris and saw he was awake, and was staring at me. 

“Hey.” I whispered, unsure what else to say.

“Hey,” he repeated casually. “Talk to me.”

“Thought you were sleeping.” I replied, voice distant and tired.

“Ya,” he said, fighting through a yawn, “talk to me so I can stay up. Tell me about Vegas.”

I scoffed. “You remember more than I do.” He didn’t respond, only hummed urgently, _ just tell me something, idiot. _I sighed and searched my brain for anything somewhat humorous that he would find interesting. “Remember when my dad gave us a bunch of arcade tokens? For that place that took an hour on the bus to get to?”

Boris snickered quietly into his pillow, nodding his head. “Where did he even get those?” 

I ignored the question, not really sure of the answer myself, “remember how I taught you the cheats for the different games? Andy taught me back in New York, he knew everything about little hacks and loopholes.” I yawned. “And then we tried using our tickets to buy that longboard. But they knew we cheated.”

“They banned us, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they took our pictures too, like we were little criminals,” we both snicker, “I mean we were, but…” Boris’ eyes were still on me, struggling to stay open. He smiled. “You found that busted skateboard, remember? A few weeks after. You gave it to me to make up for the longboard.” He reached a hand out and cupped the side of my head, stroking his fingers lightly through my hair. I shivered at the touch, and it took me a moment before I continued. “I used to fuck around with it when you were busy with Kotku.” I trailed off, unsure how to continue from there. His fingers continued to card through my hair, and suddenly he was pushing himself closer, gently pressing his hand against the back of my neck and guiding me towards him, pulling me in for a light kiss. I pulled away and I felt his hand go tense around the back of my neck.

“Potter--” He began, but I was already out of the bed and in the bathroom, head bent over the toilet and hacking up soup and wine. I heard Boris enter the bathroom after me, going on about how _he was_ _sorry, he shouldn’t have done that, his mistake,_ and it took me a minute to realize that was the first time we had ever kissed each other. I wondered if I should count the kiss he gave me before I left for New York, but before I could come to a conclusion another wave of nausea hit me and I was retching again. I held up a hand to stop Boris’ stream of apologizes and through the wet coughing managed to tell him: 

“It’s fine, Boris.” He had paused, and I could imagine he probably had a stupid look on his face, but I stared at the disgusting contents of the toilet instead. “Don’t apologize,” I managed to say before the final wave hit me and now that he was forgiven, I felt Boris kneel beside me and rub my back as I coughed and coughed the rest of my stomach into the toilet. When I stood up Boris was holding out a spare toothbrush and a hand towel. 

“You look like a vampire,” he said, and when I looked in the mirror I saw what he meant. I was deathly pale, somehow paler than him, and my mouth was stained red from the wine, a small dribble of red was running from the corner of my mouth to my chin. 

“Oh how the tables have turned,” I said, my voice gone horribly rough and scratchy. I grabbed the toothbrush and towel from him and he left the room. When I returned to the bedroom I found him standing with a bucket in his hands. 

“Incase you get sick again,” he offered. He put it on the ground next to my side and climbed back into bed. I scoffed at him.

“I wouldn’t be getting sick if_ someone _ didn’t give me too much wine.” I jokingly kicked the bucket by the bed and stood there for a moment, weighing my options, before saying fuck it and climbing into bed and sitting ontop of Boris. I straddled myself over his hips and leaned over him, but before I could kiss him he put a finger against my mouth and asked:

“You brushed your teeth, right?” I pinched him in his side and he giggled like a child before reaching up and pulling me down for another kiss. It was nice, kissing him like this, and I wondered why the hell we never did it when we were younger. Everything then was so rough, so fast, like we were racing each other, last one to finish is _ gay _ \-- but oops, that seemed like a game where everyone loses. Neither of us seemed to be in much of a rush this time around, but maybe it was the heroin and the wine and the sickness speaking, not really a significant marker in the development of our personalities. The kiss progressed to much more, but no epiphanies came down upon me, no magic flip of a switch that made me suddenly feel fine with myself. My eyes were rolling back and I heard myself gasp sharply, but mainly I was thinking of how I wasn’t as drunk as I wish I was. _ Fun and not that big of a deal. _ I thought, and before I knew it, we were falling back asleep, clutched in each others arms. 

The next morning I woke up to a slightly more palatable smell than the previous morning. Boris had stuck to frozen waffles this morning, I noticed when I stepped into the kitchen. He pressed a cup of tea into my hand and ruffled my hair before going over to light a cigarette by the window. I took a sip and felt oddly touched by the fact that he remembered how I liked me tea, even years later. I sat at the table and ate the waffle set out in front of me. 

“Boris.” I said. He was stirring together his own tea.

“Yah,” he called back, not looking up.

“I need a laptop. Or your phone. Gotta order plane tickets if I want to get home anytime soon.” I said through a mouthful of waffle. I watched the way he looked up from his tea and nodded, and if I wasn’t as observant as I was, I probably wouldn’t have noticed the way he slightly deflated at the notion of me leaving. He brings over a battered old laptop and, though it’s slow, I manage to get tickets home later that night. We spent the rest of the day lounging, the same we had done the previous days, and before I knew it, I was at the departures drop off with Boris, Gyrui sitting in the front seat and doing his best to be invisible to the two of us. Boris helped me with my bags and we promised each other we would keep in touch. His smile hurt to look at, I could tell it wasn’t his genuine one, but I put on a fake smile of my own and we hugged in a brief and subdued manner. I thought that would be all for our goodbyes, and was about to turn to leave when Boris grabbed me firmly by the shoulders, and kissed me on both cheeks. I thought of the way Mrs. Barbour had done the same thing so many years ago, but I knew what he meant in the way he looked me in the eyes and said nothing. 

… 

Our paths crossed only two times during my year spent recovering the changelings. After Amsterdam, we had fallen into the habit of sending occasional emails. I can’t remember how or why it started-- we had exchanged phone numbers in Antwerp and had no real reason not to text or call-- but every few weeks I would get an email from him, and I would send one in return. They mainly consisted of random trains of thought we’d think each other would find funny or interesting. At some point I’d began casually mentioning my next destination in my travels, a small gesture I wasn’t even sure he would notice. As it turned out, Boris never revealed his location unless it happened to coincide with mine. 

The first time was in L.A. I waited at some chic bar Boris had told me to meet him in, feeling like I stuck out like a sore thumb among the hot clubbing crowd that surrounded me, but I waited nonetheless. My most recent client had been particularly difficult, and I had just barely been able to close the deal without getting their lawyers involved. The dry desert heat didn’t help my mood either, my pressed suits were soaked through with sweat in a way I hadn’t experienced since my days in Las Vegas. As soon as my plane had landed and I breathed in the arid desert air I’d felt a suffocating nostalgia for Vegas, the bad memories mingling together with the few good in a way that made my stomach turn almost constantly. But worst of all, as I sat there waiting, I felt a sense of doom hanging over me, something I had felt looming in the back of my head ever since I received the email from Boris excitedly informing me of our crossing paths. It had only grown worse, heavier almost, as the day dragged on, the unshakable feeling that I had done something terribly wrong.

It wasn’t until I felt someone approach me from behind that I was able to shake myself from my stupor, but before I could react, two hands reached around me and put me into a loose chokehold. I knew it was Boris in an instant, his bitter smell of cigarettes and heavy cologne unchanged and unmistakable to me even after all these years. I could feel his laughter against my neck, his hand reaching up to ruffle my hair. He released the chokehold to slap me roughly on the back and exclaim “Potter!” loudly in my ear before sliding onto the stool next to me. He ordered himself a drink and began talking excitedly, gesturing wildly and smiling wide, his white teeth almost glowing in the blacklight of the bar. 

It wasn’t long before he drew me out of my funk. I swear, Boris’ attitude is infectious. I could feel myself relaxing my shoulders, throwing my head back to laugh at some anecdote Boris had finished telling, all wild gestures and excitement and laughter. There had been a thought lingering in the back of my head, festering among the other voices of disapproval and anxiety and shame. It had warned me that it was a mistake to meet up with Boris again, that maybe, Boris was something meant to be nothing more than a pleasant memory left in the past. Amsterdam was only further proof that I’d be tempting fate by meeting up again; but as the night went on, holding each other up as we laughed into each others sides, it became hard to remember that there was ever a time Boris was never right by me.

The second time was in London, one of the last stops before I’d finally have all the changelings back. I was reluctantly staying at Pippa’s flat after she generously offered and I realized there was no way to say no without hurting her feelings. Ever since she gently turned me down I had been bending over backwards to recover our relationship, since I realized she may very well be one of my only friends (if that’s what you’d even call her). Boris, desperate to get to know my ‘redhead’ better, insisted Pippa come out with us. The result was one of the most jarring nights of my life, watching Pippa and Boris laugh and drink together like they had been best friends in another life. Before the end of the night Boris had taken to calling her ‘Pippi’ (“Pippi! Whats her name! With the red hair and the…” He twirled his hands next to his head to indicate what I could only assume was pigtails). The three of us stumbled together through the streets of London laughing and singing, and for a brief moment I thought about how it was the happiest I’d felt in my life. Everett, blissfully out of town, was not there to lay witness to the three of us bursting into Pippa’s flat at an ungodly hour and serenading each other until angry neighbors began banging on the walls and we fell into a fit of laughter on the floor. 

Given the wild nature of the night, it seemed almost inevitable that Boris and I ended up in the guest bed together. Both of us drawn to the empty room after the laughter had died down and it became apparent it was time to settle down, but I had met his eyes from across the room and could see how keyed up he still was, and knew he could see the same in me. When Pippa walked in on us, spare sheets and pillows in hand, it wasn’t even a scandalous scene-- Boris on top of me, lips at my throat, both of us still fully dressed. Still, I pushed Boris off me roughly, a white hot spike of shame hit my chest and flooded my entire body until I could barely feel anything else, and somehow in that moment I felt more guilty than I had when sleeping with the Goldfinch hanging behind my headboard. 

Pippa watched us separate, and I couldn’t help but compare her to my dad, the way he’d come home to Boris’ arm slung around my shoulder and watched coldly as Boris flinched away from me like I suddenly burned to the touch. Only Pippa’s eyes were different, filled with pity and understanding that somehow made me even more sick. She left the room without a word, leaving us to catch our breath like we had just narrowly avoided getting caught shoplifting. It felt like an eternity sitting there in the dark, neither of us moving, communicating solely through our ragged breaths and subtle squeaks of the mattress.

_ I’m sorry I’m like this _ , I told him through the way I shifted my weight. _ It’s not your fault _ , he said by the way he let out a shaky exhale. _ I can’t do this _ , I said in the way I stood up. _ We can just lay here, as long as you’re here, just please don’t leave _, he begged in the way he said nothing. 

Despite the unspoken plea, I left the room and sat out on the fire escape to smoke cigarettes in quick succession and silently will the disgust surrounding my heart to go away. When I finally returned to the room where I left Boris, I crawled into bed and we lay spine to spine. I could almost feel the phantom presence of Popchyk at the foot of the bed, the position so familiar that tears began to prickle my eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, this time outloud, but Boris was already asleep.

When I returned to New York after the last changeling was recovered, I got my own apartment with the remaining reward money, and put the rest away before I could do anything stupid with it. I quickly fell back into the ritual of my old life, but I could feel myself stumbling as I tried to go on without Kitsey, or my obsession with Pippa, or even selling the fakes. Worst of all, the painting was gone, and after a year of distractions and running around the world, the sudden stillness in my life forced me to acknowledge its absence, and the emptiness I felt was almost unbearable. 

After a year of moving aimlessly through the remains of my life in New York, I overdosed in my apartment, alone. 

Hobie found me in enough time. He had come over unannounced to ask me to lunch, but instead he found me passed out on the bathroom floor. Another inevitability in my life, Hobie finding me at my worst. I had always feared for this moment-- moved away from him just to avoid it-- but as it turned out, fate had already made up its mind on this matter. 

I wrote letters from rehab. I wrote to Pippa, Hobie, Boris. Pippa sent me small lists of things that made her happy that day. I appreciated the lists, and sent her poems about them in return. One of the counselors had suggested it, and I found it to be embarrassingly helpful. 

I apologized to Hobie in my letters. I knew he wasn’t mad, he never was, but the guilt seemed like the only thing I knew anymore. When I sat down to answer him just as I did from Las Vegas, I found myself unable to think of anything but how much I’d hurt him, even after all he’d done for me. 

I didn’t bother to tell Boris I was in rehab. I wrote my letters the same way I wrote my emails, small blurbs I’d think of in the shower, a conspiracy theory I read the other day, a new word I learned. Boris took to writing letters easily, each one arriving on the back of a different ‘Greetings From…” postcard. Greetings from Greece! Greetings from Chicago! Greetings from Ukraine! He never questioned the switch in communication, which I was grateful for. His handwriting remained eerily unchanged from his youth, just as scribbled and angular as the translation notes I would find on the backs of receipts in Vegas.

We saw each other pretty consistently a few months before my OD. Boris was in New York for a while in the fall for his work, and the two of us would get drunk and high and wander around sketchy parts of the city late in the night, leaning on each other to keep from falling over. While in rehab, I had a few moments of panic over what I might’ve said or done during those nights. On the brink of suicide and already making plans, I often wondered if Boris had talked me down from the ledge the same way he had during all those nights in Vegas. _ How many times has that voice saved you? _

I stayed in rehab for three months, and started seeing a therapist every other week. I despised the idea, thinking back to uncomfortable sessions with Dave the city appointed therapist, but Hobie insisted and at that point he could’ve asked me to walk into traffic and I would’ve complied happily.

Life went on, whether I knew it or not. Sobriety made everything blur together into a haze, and I trudged through the days like molasses had filled my entire body. Holidays and birthdays and dinner parties, going through the motions, sipping my drink but not quite tasting anything at all. 

I was detoxed of the drugs I had relied on for my entire adult life, but I picked up the bottle almost as soon as I left rehab. I thought bleakly of Boris, _ I am alcoholic. Damage is done, there. I’m a drunk till I die, _and wondered absently when he would overdose himself. Not if. When. I let myself picture a future where the letters stop, no emails, texts. Number disconnected, address terminated. No thoughtful Hobie to find him, no one to guilt him into rehab, into therapy. The image of Boris sitting across from a therapist was enough to make me laugh darkly, the mere thought of Boris ever going to therapy felt less realistic than an overdose. 

Sometime after rehab I received a call from Boris. He talked fast, said:

“I’m going away, can’t talk for a while.”

“It’s fine,” I said, “we can start emailing again.” We had kept up the handwritten letters even after I left rehab.

“No Potter, no email, no letters. Ah, well--” A brief pause, I imagined him rubbing the back of his neck the way he did before telling an uncomfortable truth, “-- I’m going to jail. No worries, small charge!” Silence. “Potter? Is alright! I will do my best to see if I can contact you soon.”

It took a moment before I snapped out of my shock, words rushing to my mouth in a jumble, “how long? What prison? I can send letters, I can visit!” The words left my mouth with the same urgency as when I begged him to come with me to New York. I shook my head at the comparison. 

“No, I’m sorry Potter. Will contact you soon, okay?”

I had so much to say, but I could only manage, “Boris, _ please _.” There was another pause, and I imagined Boris rubbing his neck again.

“Love you, Theo.” Then the line was dead, and I stood there with my ears ringing and head feeling dizzy.

Not long after the phone call, I received a small gray envelope in the mail. I opened it with almost the same level of enthusiasm as I’d opened Pippa’s letter upon returning from Antwerp, only this time I managed not to rip the letter in half. 

My heart fell when I realized the paper and envelope were entirely too fancy to have come from Boris, and it sunk impossibly lower when I read the content of the letter. It announced that Mrs. Barbour had passed, and invited me to her funeral the next weekend. I read the neat lettering over and over and still it didn’t quite reach my brain that Mrs. Barbour was dead. I searched my memory of any illnesses she had, if she looked sick the last time I saw her. After Kitsey and I ended things I still made the effort to visit, and she had even visited me in rehab. _ How old was she? _I read the letter again, and again, but the details were so vague that I eventually gave up trying to analyze it and shuffled inside to tell Hobie.

The funeral was tense, and I avoided Kitsey as best I could. I spotted her in a secluded corner crying into Tom Cables chest, his arms wound around her protectively. At some point Platt slung a heavy arm around my shoulder and slurred an incomprehensible joke into my ear. He shoved a glass into my hand and clinked it together with his. Late in the evening Kitsey pulled me aside and asked how I was doing. Was I seeing anyone? I laughed and pretended I met some girl at the shop. She told me she was surprised, and I knew what she meant. I excused myself for another drink. 

I had been mentioning Boris more often in my therapy sessions. He listened patiently as I struggled to explain the reason behind the sudden drop in my mood. My relationship with Boris was something I never had to explain outloud. I’d shared tame stories of Vegas with Hobie to reassure him I wasn’t completely alone in the desert, but Hobie seemed to understand without explanation. After one session, my therapist took a moment to slip me the business card of one of his colleagues, claiming they were more qualified to discuss _ homosexual issues. _ I stopped going to therapy after that. 

I never stopped writing letters to Boris. I became more frank than I usually was, writing to him about my mood swings and binge drinking, what bothered me that week, fights I had with Hobie. _ Dear Boris, Popchik had surgery today, but he keeps getting sicker. I haven’t sold anything this entire week. I started drinking again, but I guess I never told you I stopped. Pippa hasn’t visited in months. I miss her. I miss you. _ I wrote freely, only vaguely comforted by the knowledge I would never send them, even if I had an address to send them to.

Another letter in the mail, I grabbed the expensive feeling envelope and allowed myself to feel disappointed, if only for a moment. Kitsey and Tom were getting engaged, the bright invitation announced. _ She said she hated this stationary _ , I thought vaguely, thinking back to the two of us sorting through different colors and stationary and fonts for our engagement announcements. Two days later I get a text. From Kitsey: _ I hope you got my invitation. I think we should put our past behind us. Meet me for lunch tomorrow? _

We get brunch. I limit myself to just one mimosa. She told me how she was doing, how the wedding planning was going. It was going to be a winter wedding-- at that I chuckled bleakly, thinking of Boris calling her my_ Ice Princess. _She talked about her mom, her dad, Andy. She took my hand in hers and looked me in the eyes. 

_“_It would mean so much if you came,_”_ she said, “you’re practically family, Theo, even after all that’s happened.” I nodded and ordered a second mimosa. 

By some miracle, I convinced Pippa to be my plus one to Kitsey’s wedding. She had been wanting to visit anyway, she told me, but a part of me suspected Hobie had been voicing his concerns about me to Pippa, and they just didn’t want another suicide attempt on their hands. 

Time moved in its usual fashion, without my permission and in a way I simply stopped trying to comprehend. Somehow Kitsey’s wedding day was upon us and Pippa arrived off the plane from London with a small engagement ring on her finger. She flashed her hand shyly as Hobie and I gathered around to gaze at the stone and express our warm wishes, then proceeded to worry the entire subway ride over if she was upstanding Kitsey’s big day. 

The entire day was insufferable. Pippa subtly steered me away from the flutes of champagne-- this small act confirmed in my mind that Hobie was confiding in her about my drinking-- but I still managed to sneak away to grab a few drinks. 

As it turned out, people did notice Pippa’s ring, and congratulated the two of us the entire night. Pippa and I being confused for a couple was something that would’ve driven me up the wall a few years ago, but in that moment I only felt vague annoyance.

There was a point during the reception when Platt made a joke about Kitsey and I’s engagement party, the punchline having something to do with the Russian guy I left with. Platt roughly elbowed my side and laughed harshly. I could feel Pippa grabbing my arm and whispering something, but it was hard to hear anything through the sudden ringing in my ears.

I excused myself and went outside to smoke. Pippa followed, standing beside me and lighting a cigarette of her own, but it took me a few minutes to even notice she was there. She was talking to me. I thought it might’ve been something comforting but I wasn’t listening. 

My mind was drifting off. It had been almost two years since I heard from Boris. Sometimes I let my mind wander to the idea that he might be dead. It was somehow more comforting than the thought of him spending a lifetime in prison. 

Pippa asked me something. I wasn’t sure what, but I could feel myself talking. _ I love him _, I heard myself say. My hands were shaking. Pippa’s eyes burned into the side of my face, and I knew that if I met her eyes she would have the same look of pity I saw in London. When my ears stopped burning and my head stopped spinning, I told her we should leave. 

I searched the venue for Kitsey to say goodbye, and found her sharing a moment with Tom. She parted from him when she spotted me, and came over to place a delicate hand on my cheek. Her fingers were cold. 

“I’m happy for you, Kitsey.” I said, and I really meant it. She smiled before pressing a friendly kiss to my cheek. I thought vaguely of her mother, then of Boris. 

“I hope you find the same happiness, Theo,” when I said nothing, she added, “you’re always welcome here.”

There was a night sometime in the dead of winter when I stumbled, drunk out of my mind, into Hobie’s shop instead of going home to my own apartment. He was up late, working on a chair that had just come in. He was excited about this one, he had showed me the water damage on the legs earlier that day and told me his plans for restoration. Careful not to disturb the peace, I sat myself on the steps of his workshop and listened to him work silently. 

When he decided he was finished for the night, he went over to me and clasped a steady hand on my shoulder, smiling warmly. And that, somehow, was what broke the dam. In that moment I began to sob, harder than I had in my entire life. I felt stupid, the way he had to help me up the stairs and to the dining table. He placed tea in front of me and I gripped the hot sides as if it would somehow ground me, but I felt disoriented from the watery vision and my chest heaved so heavily I thought I might throw up from the mere effort of dragging in one gasping breath. 

It took me too long to calm down, and when I did, we sat with our cooling teas and did not utter a word. Of all the moments, now would be the time for me to confess to him everything that had been dragging me down for the past _ how many years. _I could feel myself beginning to hyperventilate again as I fixated on the wall behind Hobie’s head and wondered how many years it had been since I’d overdosed. I wanted to ask him but I couldn’t even meet his eye, so instead I ripped my smeared glasses off my face, covered my eyes with my hands, and began to sob again.

In the summer, Pippa invited me to stay with her in London for a bit, to clear my head, and have a late celebration for my birthday. She claimed she got lonely when Everett went away for his work and she didn’t mind the company at all, I could even come with her to taste test wedding cakes. In all honesty I didn’t want to go, but I saw the way Hobie watched over me since that night I broke down in front of him. We hadn’t spoken much about it, but he approached me a few times about going back to therapy, and even brought up AA a few times. Boris’ voice always echoed distantly in my head during these conversations, _ Damage is done, there. I’m a drunk till I die, _and I would change the subject as fast as I could. 

“I feel old.” I admitted to Pippa as we walked back to her flat from dinner. She looked at me quizzically, her nose scrunched and her mouth quirked up like she wasn’t sure I was joking or not.

“You’re not old.” She assured me, but I knew she didn’t understand my point. 

“I feel like I’ve already lived my entire life, but I just wasted it all.” She said nothing, silently encouraging me to continue. I swallowed thickly. “I can’t see what’s in front of me anymore.”

She contemplated this for a moment, then turned to face me completely, “you need change,” she stated, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. I looked at her incredulously. She raised her eyebrows back at me, as if to say, _ you think I don’t understand? _

“Do you ever feel like you weren’t supposed to make it this far?” I asked. I often forgot how similar we were, despite the way she pulled herself together.

“Of course I do,” she said. I felt pained that she understood so easily, that she could hide her pain so much easier than me, or that she even felt it at all. “Sometimes it feels like I died in the museum, and everything since then has been a long, bad dream.”

“Before and after,” I muttered under my breath. She heard me anyway, and nodded.

“You need change, Theo,” she said, more firmly this time, “you are not doomed, or cursed. You survived so much. You do not have to keep living in the past,” her eyes met mine and I felt paralyzed by her sudden change in demeanor. I suddenly felt awful for how I had treated her over the years, never as my equal but instead as some prize to be won, a token that when obtained would shower me in confetti and bold letters above my head would appear, screaming YOU’VE WON! Staring back into her intense eyes I felt the misplaced urge to lean forward and kiss her, and I was so taken aback by the thought that I physically shook my head and took a step backwards. 

We resumed walking, silence no longer comfortable, and I began to think about the last time I walked these London streets with Boris and Pippa in tow, feeling on top of the world. 

That night I laid in the same bed I had shared with Boris, and felt suffocated by regret. 

In the usual fashion, time marched on and I was back in London before I knew it. Pippa’s wedding was the next day, and Hobie and I had just checked into the hotel all of the wedding guests would be staying at. We stood in the elevator in silence until Hobie let out a small gasp and snapped his fingers, as if he remembered he left the stove on. I raised my eyebrows at him and he shook his hand dismissively. 

“Forgot to tell you about a call,” I looked at him quizzically and he continued to explain, “right before we left for the airport someone called, asking for you. Didn’t catch a name but I told him we were going to London. I wrote down the number.” He patted himself down before reaching into a pocket and fishing out a folded piece of paper. I took the paper as the elevator doors dinged open and we split up when we reached our respective rooms.

I pulled the paper out of my pocket and when I looked at it I realized the number meant nothing to me, so I pulled out my phone and searched the area code. Los Angeles. I tried to think of anyone from L.A. that would need me, and for a moment worried that one difficult customer was trying to get in touch, but I realized Hobie said it was a man on the phone and the L.A. customer was an overly botoxed woman in her 40’s, with three yapping chihuahuas that gave me a migraine as I tried to close the deal. I let myself fall back onto the bed and before I could dwell on the mystery caller for too long, my phone buzzed with an incoming call.

“Hello?”

“Theo!” Pippa called out on the other end. “Have you landed? Where are you?” She sounded out of breath, like she was walking somewhere in a hurry. I could hear the sounds of cars passing and the wind blew into the microphone of her cellphone. 

“We just checked into the hotel.” 

“Great! I’m actually coming over right now. Can you stay there? I’ll be over soon,” then it sounded as if she pulled the phone away from her head and I could only hear the sound of fabric ruffling and her indistinct voice. It sounded like she was talking to someone. Then her voice became clear again, “I have a surprise for you?” She said, but her inflection made it sound more like a question than a statement. She pulled the phone away from her mouth again and her voice became distant, then she returned and said quickly, “okay, gotta go, don’t go anywhere!” And she hung up. 

The conversation was suspicious, but after an 8 hour flight I felt exhausted out of my mind. I made no effort to get up from the bed and make myself presentable for Pippa, and not long after I hung up I fell asleep. 

I was startled awake by a sharp knock at the door. I sat up groggily and ran a hand over my face, trying to wake myself up enough to greet Pippa. The knocking continued, sounding excited and borderline frantic, and I briefly wondered what surprise Pippa had for me. I got up, calling out to say _ I’m coming, I’m coming _.

Pippa stood in the doorway, hand raised to continue her knocking, and I saw that her fist was shaking. She threw me a smile, almost pained looking, and her appearance was so windblown and crazy that it took me a moment to notice she wasn’t alone. 

That’s when my heart stopped. Behind her stood Boris, his expression mirroring Pippa’s. They both looked crazy, and stared back at me like they thought I would either slam the door in their faces or fall on the floor sobbing. He smiled at me, almost shyly, and I felt so taken aback by the combination of _ Boris _ and _ shy _that in that instant I was positive I was dreaming. 

“No,” I said, though I didn’t mean to. I cringed at how their expressions immediately fell and I scrambled to find something to say to make the two of them stop staring at me like that, “I mean,” I looked between the two of them and failed to say anything at all, all the words I’d wanted to say for so long, dying on my tongue.

“Can we come in?” Boris asked, raising his shoulders in a way that told me he was trying to be casual, when he felt anything but. I shook my head yes, opening the door wider and he immediately shouldered past me and into the room. Pippa remained in the hall, and when I turned my head back to her she smiled apologetically. 

“He showed up at my flat,” she said, shrugging, as if that answered everything, “he asked me to take me to you.” She laughed in that wild way and brushed the fly aways from her face. “Sorry for springing this on you, I know you’re tired--”

“No, it’s fine.” I said, my brain finally back online, “Im… sorry if he got in the way of wedding stuff.” I said, suddenly realizing I should be the one apologizing on Boris’ behalf. She shook her head and there was a lull of silence where neither of us knew how to continue.

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, and my ears went red when I remembered how much she knew about Boris and I. 

“Right.” I said and nodded curtly, feeling so uncomfortable in my own skin. I could feel Boris’ eyes on me, and I shut the door before she could even say goodbye.

I took a deep breath and turned around, half expecting the room to be empty, but he was still there, standing by the bed with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. Now that I’d let him into the room he looked more relaxed, and his expression had gone unreadable. I took a moment to consider the subtle changes from the last time I saw him. His face seemed gaunt and his hair shaggier, and the bags under his eyes were dark as ever. Despite all this, he somehow seemed healthier than I expected. He was skinnier, sure, but not in the wiry, jittery, drugged out way I remember from Amsterdam. His curls looked full and shiny, his skin surprisingly pink, like he had been slightly sunburned, and the bags under his eyes seemed more from lack of sleep than anything else.

It hit me full force, the undeniable fact that he was standing here in front of me, alive and arguably healthy, and I felt a swell of emotions that ranged from _ I love you so goddamn much _ to _ I want to break your arm you good for nothing bastard. _I started towards him, unsure what I intended to do, not stopping until I stood mere inches from his face. This close I could see the scar above his eye, hook shaped and unmistakable to me, but faded after all this time. I was so busy taking in every detail in front of me that I had forgotten I was supposed to be doing something, saying something, literally anything than just stand there and stare. 

Boris, apparently more with it than I was, moved first, grabbing me by the back of the neck and pushing our foreheads together. The motion, sickeningly familiar, electrified my brain back to functioning levels, and I sighed audibly. My thoughts now back online, I said the first thing that came to mind: 

“Fuck you.” I had meant to sound angrier, but my voice cracked like a teenager and I faltered towards the end, my voice dropping down to a whisper. I could feel him relax, shoulders slumping and grip on my neck loosening. He moved the hand up to my hair and began stroking slowly, and a shiver went through my body so strong I was positive he could feel it too. 

We stood there for a long moment like that, my racing mind going silent for the first time in years. I would’ve stayed there for hours if Boris didn’t grab my arm with his free hand and pull away first. He looked at me with his dark eyes, and I felt vulnerable, like he was searching my soul for answers I didn’t have. I could feel the calm of the moment slipping away, and I began wondering irritably why he was searching _ me _. I was the one that deserved answers. I pulled myself as far away as I could with his hands still on my neck and arm. 

“Four years, Boris,” my voice was steadier now, suddenly cold and hard. “Four _ years _ since you called. _ ” _ My perception of time was warped, I knew that. I could barely tell one day from another anymore, but this, _ this _I was sure of. Four years since I’d heard from him.

He removed his hands from me and went to sit on the edge of the bed. He shook his shoulders and hung his head in his Russian accented way, and let out a self deprecating laugh. 

“I know, Potter. I know.” It was weird, but I could almost hear the _ I’m sorry _on the tip of his tongue, wavering at the end of every sentence, but that wasn’t our thing, we didn’t apologize to each other, and so he held it back. He looked up at me and began moving his hands expressively, “I was in a bad situation, I had no time to explain,” his eyes took on a puppy dog expression, and I saw they were watery, like he was on the verge of tears. He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “I was in longer than expected.”

I wanted to ask him why I couldn’t write, or visit, why he didn’t tell me anything, but I asked the important question that had been bothering me for years.

“What the hell did you do?” 

“Drug charges. Minor stuff, really,” he shrugged and waved his hands, in a _ no seriously _ way, and waited for my next question. I hesitated at the way he sat there expectantly, but continued anyway.

“Where were you?” 

“Ah, this place in Russia. Fucking hell on earth, Potter, let me tell you--” He seemed serious about explaining why this place was hell, but I wasn’t in the mood, I still had questions.

“I would’ve visited you. I don’t care where.” I interrupted. He seemed oddly touched by what I said, and I looked away embarrassed. “You should’ve told me where you were.” I said to the ugly hotel painting on the wall behind his head. 

“Couldn’t have that, Potter,” I looked back to him when he said this, curious. He looked at me. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.” I let his words hang in the air for a moment, but he slapped a hand on his thigh and stood up, “but this does not matter. I am here now, yes?” He put his hands on my shoulders and jostled me. “Just in time for Pippi’s wedding!” He pulled me into a hug and patted me on the back in a manly way. 

I felt startled by the sudden switch in mood, this pseudo bro hug so far separated from the way he pushed his forehead against mine earlier. The mood in the room was bursting with an odd energy, the way we would stand on opposite sides of the room as kids before we wrestled each other to the ground just to release _ some _ form of pent up energy. This limbo felt dangerous, and I heard myself suggesting we go downstairs, get a drink from the bar, _ something _ to get us out of the room before we did something stupid. 

We ended up running into Pippa’s bridesmaids in the lobby, all of them recognized me immediately and became fascinated by Boris the moment he introduced himself. Somehow we were being dragged out to the local bar with them, Boris had stolen the spotlight and they hung onto his every word, the gaggle of girls enamored by his foriegn accent and mysteriously dark eyes. Pippa showed up, obviously this was supposed to be some sort of bachelorette party/girls night out that Boris and I had managed to crash, but Pippa found the entire situation hilarious and insisted we stay. I shrugged, resigned, accepting that this was somewhat less humiliating than whatever awaited at Everett’s bachelor party. 

Later in the night, Pippa and I sat in the corner of the bar and watched Boris tell one of his stories from around the world, Pippa’s friends laughing uproariously right on queue. I felt Pippa lightly shove my shoulder, asking for my attention. I turned to her, feeling a weird sense of calm despite Boris’ sudden arrival. She raised her eyebrows at me.

“How is he?” 

I smirked at the question and directed my eyes back to Boris, who was ordering another round of shots. “What do you think?” She followed my gaze and rested her chin on her hand. 

“Looks skinny,” she said, then looked back at me, “make sure he gets lots of cake tomorrow.” I looked back over her, tilting my head. Did I hear her right?

“You want him there?” I thought of Boris crashing Kitsey and I’s engagement party. “Are you sure?” 

“Of course!” She said, shoving my shoulder again, “you have a plus one, Theo. There’s room.” We turned to watch Boris again. 

“I hope he brought a suit.” I say offhandedly, not remembering he just came from prison. 

As it turned out, he did have a suit. I found that odd, but didn’t want to dig too deep into the whole prison thing quite yet. It was wrinkled, since he had shoved it in his suitcase in a way that made me bristle. He laughed at my annoyance and shoved me away from the suitcase, snatching the wrinkled mess out of my hands before disappearing into the bathroom.

“Secret trick to getting wrinkles out, my dad taught me!” His voice yelled from the bathroom, “gone like that!” He said, and made a _ poof _ sound effect. I rolled my eyes at him and bent down to clean up the mess of clothes that had burst from his suitcase. It seemed as if he packed his entire wardrobe, and I wondered briefly where he lived now. Did he even still have a job? I wasn’t so sure if Russian mobsters were open to sabbaticals. 

The new jailbird Boris was full of surprises, it seemed. He was perfectly respectable during the ceremony, introduced himself to Pippa’s guests like a gentleman and clapped when appropriate. When he saw Hobie, he hugged him, much to Hobie’s surprise. I had never properly explained to him about Boris’ absence, and I could see this only added to his confusion. But he rolled with it nonetheless, pulling away from the hug and laughing jovially, exclaiming, “what a wonderful surprise!” But I could feel he was going to pull me aside for questioning later. I was sober the entire ceremony, but I felt high as I took in my surroundings, Boris sitting next to me, suit and all, wiping a tear from his eye as Pippa and Everett shared their vows. 

Later at the reception, he pulled Everett, poor confused Everett, into a hug and slung his arm around his neck. He pointed at him and smiled wide. 

“You are lucky man! So lucky!” Everett looked to Pippa for answers, but she was giggling too hard to help. “Love, ah--” Boris pinched his fingers like an Italian chef, “Love is so wonderful, yes? You and Pippi here, what you have,” he released Everett and moved to take Pippa’s hand in his, “You two are very lucky. Many blessings,” and then he leaned to kiss Pippa’s hand. 

I caught him a few times sneaking various food items from the buffett into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and I slapped his hands and told him to cut it out. When the cake was cut I took Pippa’s advice and made sure he ate as much as he wanted, serving him three slices before he shook his hand at me and pretended to gag. I felt giddy, still in disbelief at what I was seeing. Boris, alive! Alive and well and stealing a dance with Pippa and laughing with his head thrown back. 

Late in the evening, couples moving together on the dance floor to a slow song, Boris and I went outside on the balcony to smoke, giggling from god knows what, passing the same cigarette back and forth despite the fact that I had a full pack in my pocket. He leaned on the railing and I watched him unabashedly. I couldn’t help the smile on my face, my cheeks almost hurting with it. He caught me staring and a smile crept across his face as well. “What?” He asked. 

“I can’t believe you’re here.” I said, stealing the cigarette from his mouth and taking a drag. He chuckled and returned his gaze to the skyline. 

“Me too, Potter.” I kept watching him, taking in his features in a new light, realizing all at once how grateful I was to be able to stare at him again. I felt overcome with emotions, bubbling high in my chest, and I blurted out what I was thinking:

“I thought you were dead.” I blew out a puff of smoke with the words and he turned his gaze back to me. I offered the cigarette back to him, just to have something to do with my hands, and he searched my eyes in that way that made me squirm. I wanted to look way, like I always did when confronted with real, open intimacy, but I kept my eyes locked on his, determined to be less of a coward. “I don’t know why. I just…” I kept my eyes steady on his. “I missed you so much I didn’t know what to do with myself. You never called again. No letters or anything.” I fiddled with my hands, regretting giving him the cigarette, but he had read my mind and wordlessly passed it back, hands bumping together clumsily as we both refused to look away from each other’s eyes. 

“It takes more than prison to kill me, Potter.” He huffed, his lips twitching into a smirk. “You know me,” he puffed out his chest and exaggerated his accent, “strong like bull.” I coughed, I was in the middle of a drag, and the two of us laughed hard, eyes still steady on each other. 

My skin was itching up and down from the extended eye contact and I swore I’d never looked at someone this long in my life. Despite my better judgement, I leaned into him and connected our lips, for just a moment, and pulled back slightly. He’d closed his eyes, and the sight of his face relaxed and strangely calm this close to mine was enough for me to lean back in, kissing him again for only a second longer. As much as I wanted more, _ needed _ more, I was acutely aware of my surroundings and leaned back from him fully this time. His eyes opened slowly, he looked drunker than he was, and he tilted his head to smirk at me. We said nothing, just continued to pass the cigarette back and forth in comfortable silence before walking back inside to the festivities. 

When we arrived back at my hotel room, I jumped into the shower immediately, feeling sweaty from dancing and sticky from when Boris shoved a piece of cake into my face. When I stepped out of the bathroom toweling my hair dry, I found Boris looking at the scattered objects on the desk. He picked up the piece of paper Hobie had given me and waved it in the air. “What’s this?” He asked, genuine curiosity, “new plug?”

“No.” I said, snatching the paper from him and sitting on the bed, “actually, uh, I quit?” 

“No shit!” He seemed genuinely surprised and raised a hand over his heart, “me too! Clean as a whistle, as you say!” He whistled just to prove his point, and jumped onto the bed beside me. I twisted to look at him.

“You’re clean?” I said, feeling bad for the way my voice oozed with doubt. 

“Yes I am clean!” He said, sounding mock offended. “In prison not much choice! I mean, if you really try you can get anything you want and trust me Potter, I tried, but…” He rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling “I was not so popular in prison. No one sells to me!” He waved his hands in the air and looked at me, _ can you believe that? _ I raised my eyebrows at him. _ No way. _“So I detoxed in freezing cold cell, no proper heat in shitty Russian jail, should be fucking crime to be so cold. Shit my brains out, felt like I was on death's doorstep.” I felt a surge of pity and anger as I watched him tell the story, knowing how much he truly hated the cold and feeling like I could kill the bastards that put him through that. He popped his head back up and looked at me with a smile, “but look at me now! Clean and healthy, no more drugs for me.” 

I felt bad for doubting his words, but he’d only been out of prison probably a few days. Once he fell back into his old life there was no doubt he would pick up the drugs again, it seemed only natural. The hopeful way he had asked me if the number belonged to a dealer seemed like proof enough. 

I leaned back on the bed and laid next to him, looking at him for a moment before asking: “How did you even know I’d be here?” 

“I didn’t! That’s why I showed up at Pippi’s.” He explained, waving his hands as best he could from his position on the bed.

“No, no, like, how’d you know I’d be in London at all?” 

“I talked to the old poofter. I called as soon as I was out! Was so excited I almost bought a ticket to New York right away, but luckily I called first. Poofter answered, said you were on your way to London so I just went to Pippi’s.”

“... You called the shop?” He turned his head towards me and nodded. 

“Yes?”

I sat up and waved the paper with the number in his face, “this is your number then?” I knew the gesture was childish but I continued to wave it in front of him until he grabbed my wrist and pried the paper out of my grasp. “Hobie gave me the number of the person that called asking for me.”

“I guess so. I called from a payphone.” He shrugged, examining the number on the paper casually. 

“Why were you in L.A.?” 

“Hm?” 

“Los Angeles. That’s the area code for L.A.” I pointed at the paper. He looked at it and I felt his mood shift, the playfulness fell out of his shoulders and he tensed up, suddenly evasive in the way he stiffly shrugged. 

“I know some people there.” He said, choosing to stare at the paper intensely. 

“You said you called Hobie’s right away? Why would you go to L.A. from Russia?” I knew I was pushing my limits by asking so many questions when I had obviously already pushed him into a Mood. 

“I needed a place to stay. Someone let me stay at their place. Why does it matter?” He was angry with me, I could tell, but I needed to get the truth out of him.

“... How long were you in prison for?” He finally looked up from the paper, his eyes asking me if I really wanted to do this. Warning me. “... Boris.” 

“Fucking fine!” He sat up and attempted to throw the paper somewhere on the floor, but it drifted slowly onto the end of the bed, its lightweight not giving it the dramatic effect he was hoping for. “I was in L.A. for a little while after prison, okay?” He held his hands out in front of him, “I have a life, Potter, besides you. Had one for eight fucking years without you.”

I was trying to stay calm, but he struck a chord there. “Yeah, living off the painting you stole from _ me, _” I snapped. 

“Not the point!” He jabbed a finger at me, “not the fucking point, Potter!” 

“What was the point? The fact that you’ve been out of prison for how fucking long and you only just decided to contact me?” I stared him down, daring him to say one more word. “How long Boris?”

He looked away. “Two years,” he mumbled, then put his head in his hands. He had given in so quickly it took me a moment to even realized he had answered my question. Two _ fucking _years. I felt my emotions from the past two days all come back together and realized maybe I was right for wanting to break his arm when he first showed up. I stood up from the bed and distanced myself from him, scrubbing my face and trying not to yell, trying not to be my father. 

“Two years?” I said, voice caught between disbelief and rage. My back was to him but I knew he was looking at me. 

“Listen Potter. It was a fucked up time. People wanted me dead, so many fucking people! I messed up big time, getting arrested like that.” He had gotten up off the bed and was walking towards me. I closed my eyes. “I couldn’t just show up. I had to lay low. Figure shit out. I wanted to call you, I did! Every fucking day I missed you.” His voice had caught on that last sentence and I knew he was on the verge of crying. I couldn’t turn around, couldn’t open my eyes. 

“So what am I?” I began, voice sounding weaker than I expected. I cleared my throat and started again. “What am I? Your last resort?” I willed myself to turn around, found him standing right behind me. I didn’t let my voice waver. “Let me guess, no one else was willing to help you. Shit out of luck. You ran out of options, so you came here.” His eyes were searching mine, and I felt fucking sick. “You could’ve come to me. I would’ve helped you, Boris. I don’t care what shit you’re in. You know I’d kill for you again.” My voice caught on that, saying it outloud was still too much to handle, but I pushed forward, “you know I would. You could’ve come anytime, but you didn’t.” 

I didn’t need to hear an answer, I knew I was right by the way he looked away first, staring at the floor, the wall behind me, anything but my face. I let his silence fill the room until the point seemed clear. I grabbed my keys and my cigarettes and left the room.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> wwoOOO. I've been working on this for a while but I'll be honest, I wrote the entire final draft in one sitting and that really burned me out. part two will come hopefully soon, I have a lot of time on my hands so probably not too long. I promise it will get happier. Title is named after the song Alone After Life by Oberhofer
> 
> coming next chapter: two bros sharing a bed five feet apart cause they just had a big fight and have no where else to sleep and they’re not gay.


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